


A Nightingale Sings

by captainkippen



Category: Andi Mack (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 08:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19081588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainkippen/pseuds/captainkippen
Summary: T.J. Kippen is a bestselling author staying in Shadyside to write his new book. It's there that he meets Cyrus Goodman, a barista at a local coffee shop, and finds his life changing forever.





	A Nightingale Sings

"This is getting ridiculous," a voice announced from above him.

TJ looked up to see Kira stood at the top of the stairs, hands on her hips and a face on like she was going into battle, and he groaned in exasperation. He had been steadily ignoring her phone calls for about three days now, knowing what she was going to say, but it seemed she had finally had enough of him putting it off. He hadn’t even heard her come in.

“When did you get here?” He asked.

She ignored him, continuing her beratement as she sauntered down the stairs. She looked impeccable as usual, dressed in a suit and holding a large takeaway cup of coffee. If a stranger were to look at her there would be no doubt in their mind that she was a professional, but TJ knew better. It was an illusion for her higher-ups.  When Kira was out of the office she dropped all pretence of being professional and moved straight into a routine of casual insults (usually directed _at_ TJ).

"You’ve been here almost a month and it looks like you haven't gone any further than the convenience store on the corner,” she pointed out. To be fair to her, she was right. Where TJ sat at the kitchen table of his rented cottage he had accumulated quite the pile of scrunched up grocery bags. "You know there's a whole world out there. Are you actually planning on exploring or was coming to this town a total waste of time?"

Shadyside was a quaint little town out in the midwest. With its tidy streets and a small community of townsfolk, the October frosts made it glisten like the picture on the front of a Christmas card. While it was a delightful area, it was not the kind of place TJ would have chosen to come if he had had any choice in the matter. In fact, if he’d had the option he would have chosen to stay at home in New York. He missed the distant sounds of city chaos and familiar surroundings. The countryside was not his kind of place at all, which was probably why it had been chosen for him.

He grimaced at the thought of going out. There were so few people around the town - the idea of getting trapped in polite conversation struck him as positively awful. Everybody was so _nice_ in Shadyside. When he’d first arrived, the owners of the neighbouring houses had kept trying to invite him to dinner. He had politely declined as many times as he could without being truly rude and ducked into the house too terrified to reemerge in case he was asked again and forced to accept in order to prove he had manners. It was too much. He wanted to be left alone. His agent felt it important for him to take some time away and get his head on straight.

"I didn't come here to explore," he grumbled, returning his gaze to his computer screen. "I came here to write."

“You came here to get your head on straight,” Kira said, sliding into the seat opposite. “ _And_ to write. You can do both. I’ve seen you do it.”

‘To get his head on straight’ was the polite way of putting the fact that TJ had not been doing as his publishers expected, thus had been exiled from New York and all the distractions (alcohol and rich socialites) which came with it for the time being.

A few years back, TJ’s writing career had taken a right turn and he had become an overnight star in the writing world. It was all thanks to a spy thriller he had written, ‘ _A Nightingale Sings’,_ which had hit the number one spot on several bestseller lists and was overall considered a rousing success. It was not his first published piece, but it was the first he had not self-published and the first to get anywhere in terms of garnering any attention. Kira and her agency were responsible for getting it published in the first place. He was grateful, he truly was, but he had intended for _‘A Nightingale Sings’_ to be a standalone book. Now, they wanted him to write a sequel. It could make his career, they said. One well-known book was good, but a series guaranteed his name in the hall of fame. One book was forgettable. A series was forever.

TJ resented the idea a little, but there was tired desperation inside him for his stories to be read. Kira knew what she was doing, she liked to remind him, and his self-published works had never gone anywhere in the way _‘A Nightingale Sings’_ had. He needed the agency. They were the key to people reading his books. So, he would do what they said.

The problem was that he had been trying to write the book for four weeks now and still had come up with absolutely nothing. It was infuriating. He had never had a case of the block quite like this.

“How’s the book going?” Kira asked, raising an eyebrow in a manner that suggested she might be able to read his thoughts.

He scowled at her.

"Maybe you need a fresh perspective," she suggested. "Someone to bounce your ideas off. Why don't you call Amber?"

He waved that idea off without hesitation. "She and Iris are still on their honeymoon. I don't want to disturb them."

“I thought that was last month?”

“They keep finding new places to go,” he said.

Amber was TJ’s twin sister and the only person in the world that ever seemed to be able to jolt him out of the bottomless pit that writer’s block created for him. Rather annoyingly, she also felt that _‘A Nightingale Sings’_ should remain a standalone and had made her opinion on the matter quite clear. It was unlikely that she would be much help right now, even if she wasn’t off galavanting around East Asia with her new wife.

"Well, you've got to do something,” Kira sighed. “You can't just sit around here moping."

TJ rolled his eyes and stood up, the legs of his chair scraping along the floor noisily as he did so, and made his way over to the counter to refill his coffee cup. It wasn’t moping. It was sitting in artistic silence while staring at a blank computer screen and wearing a robe.

He couldn’t remember if he’d showered that morning.

Kira tapped her fingers on the table’s surface idly. "What about a writer's group?"

"Hm?"

She nodded and sipped her tea. "I saw a notice for one in the window of that little coffee shop down the street. They meet every Thursday. Maybe you could join in? Talking to new people might help get the creative juices flowing."

“Sounds like an awful idea.”

“I’m sorry, I believe I phrased that like you have a choice. You don’t. Go to the writer’s group, get your groove back or whatever it is without getting blackout drunk, and have those pages you were asked for last week done by Monday.

TJ sighed, but arguing would be futile. Sometimes talking to Kira felt more like taking orders from a drill sergeant. Or his mother. Instead, he nodded and elected to change the subject.

“Do you need me to make up the guest bed?”

Kira fixed him with an expression that suggested she knew better than to believe she would willingly stay in a place like this any longer than necessary. She was always on the go. The countryside wasn’t her kind of place either.

“No. I was on my way back from L.A. I thought I’d stop in on the way to see how you were doing.” TJ knew better than to mistake her meaning in this too - it was not _him_ she was checking in on. It was the book. “I’ll be getting the red-eye back tonight. I thought we could have dinner first.”

“Is that your way of telling me to get dressed?”

“Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to?”

He sighed. “Fine. But I’m not going any place I have to wear a tie.”

 

* * *

 

Come Thursday afternoon, TJ found himself stood outside of an artsy old shop with a lopsided sign nailed out front which declared it **_‘MACK’S COFFEE HOUSE’_ ** **.** The entire shopfront looked as if it had been pulled from the nineteen thirties. If he weren’t in such a bad mood, TJ might have even called it charming. The art windows were absolutely covered in fliers and posters advertising community events. He stepped closer to examine them. Just by the door, a large white one stated:

 

**CREATIVE WRITING GROUP**

**MEETINGS EVERY THURSDAY @ 3PM**

**NEWCOMERS WELCOME**

**PRETENTIOUS LITERATURE STUDENTS NOT**

 

A small laugh escaped TJ despite himself and he shook his head before pushing the front door open. A small bell tinkled above as he entered and he was greeted by a pleasant burst of warmth. He unwound the scarf from his neck as he took in his surroundings.

He couldn’t help but take a deep breath in, the delicious smell of rich coffee filled the air, and the past few weeks of stress almost seemed to slide right off his back like water. The walls were decorated with vintage posters, art and photographs. Trailing plants hung from the wooden beams of the ceilings and the walls were of the comforting dark wood sort. Mismatched armchairs, couches and tables that looked as if they’d seen better years were scattered about the floor. In the corner, a spiral staircase wound its way up and disappeared through the ceiling. Even with the clanking sounds of the drinks machines going, the entire place had an atmosphere of peacefulness about it. The shop was not busy, but there were patrons dotted around at various tables and booths. From somewhere near the back Frank Sinatra’s silky voice floated gently through the air. TJ was only a few feet into the actual room before it happened.

A young man, probably not much older than himself, wearing a green apron was sweeping the floor. Well, not sweeping… _dancing._ Dancing with the pretence of sweeping, TJ thought. He watched as the man mouthed along to Sinatra’s words, cheerfully twirling around the place as he cleaned. It only took one wrong step, and the man was tripping over his own feet. Without so much as a hesitation, TJ found himself hurrying forward and quite suddenly found his arms full with a coffee shop employee.

The world went still.

Brown eyes stared up at him, wide and surprised, with mussed locks of hair falling forward into them. TJ didn’t think about it as he brushed them out of the man’s face with gentle fingers. As he did so, his stomach did something funny. It felt a little like it did when a rollercoaster went down a particularly steep drop. It flipped.

TJ swallowed.

“You can let go now,” the man said softly and startled TJ out of his daze. He released him quickly and stepped back. The man smiled and bent down to retrieve his broom from where it had clattered to the floor. “Thank you for catching me. Usually, I just end up bruised when I fall.”

He smiled up at TJ, eyes glittering with something like mischief, and TJ forced himself not to return it with a dopey smile of his own. Instead, he cleared his throat slightly and tried to ignore the heat creeping across his cheeks with minimum success.

“Um, I’m here for the writers’ meeting?” He asked.

The man didn’t seem bothered by TJ’s lack of amusement, in fact, his smile seemed to grow a little wider as he leaned on the broom handle. “Oh, great! We don’t get a lot of newbies… y’know, small town and all, but it’s always a good thing when we do. You’re a little early. We usually set up in the corner over there. Can I get you anything to drink while you wait for everyone else?”

TJ was somewhat taken aback. “You’re a writer?”

The man shrugged. “Sometimes. When I feel like it. I mostly just listen on in the meetings and make sure everyone’s fed. It’s fun though.” He thrust a hand towards TJ. “I’m Cyrus. Part-time barista, full-time clutz. Nice to meet you.”

“TJ,” TJ replied curtly, shaking his hand. He was having a hard time pulling his eyes away from Cyrus’ face for some reason. “Good to meet you too.”

“So can I get you that drink?” Cyrus asked, and made his way over to the counter at the back when TJ nodded. He trailed after him feeling as if he’d been tilted off-balance somehow.

“Just a coffee please,” TJ said, leaning against the counter as Cyrus began to clatter around behind it. “Black.”

Cyrus nodded and got to work. He navigated the area like it was second nature and TJ found himself wondering how long Cyrus had worked here. He had no idea why he cared - it was a strange thing to wonder about a stranger, he thought.

“So you’re a writer too, I take it,” Cyrus said after hitting a button on the machine behind him and leaning back over the counter on his elbows to smile at TJ again. “Seeing as you’re here for the writing group and all. Are you new in town? I’ve not seen you around before.”

TJ nodded. “I’m actually here _to_ write. I’m working on a book at the moment… my agent thought a change of scenery would do me good while I worked. ‘Fresh air is good for the soul’ and all that jazz. I’m from New York, we don’t… there’s not much fresh air there.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Cyrus said, grabbing the finished coffee and sliding it over to TJ. “Nothing but fresh air in Shadyside. How long have you been here?”

TJ decided it only made sense to settle himself onto one of the high stools in front of the counter, they were having a conversation after all.

“About a month. I’m not much good with new places,” TJ admitted.

Cyrus raised his eyebrows at him. “We should consider ourselves lucky that you graced us with your presence today, then,” he said, teasingly.

TJ couldn’t help but grin sheepishly in response.

“So, you have an agent. That’s serious business. What’s the book about?”

“It’s a sequel to a book a wrote a little while back. A spy thriller.”

“Anything I would’ve heard of?”

TJ shrugs. “Maybe. _‘A Nightingale Sings_ ’?”

There was a brief pause where Cyrus’ gaze seemed to sharpen suddenly and TJ shifted uncomfortably in his seat. A look of recognition began to dawn on Cyrus’ face.

“Wait… TJ. As in TJ Kippen?”

TJ nodded and sipped his coffee, avoiding Cyrus’ eye as he did. He hated it when people recognised him. It had not taken long after the success of _‘A Nightingale Sings’_ for him to work out that book fans often did not care how crazy they were perceived to be. They would stop him in the middle of whatever he was doing to pepper him with questions about his characters or to try and poke holes in his plot or badger him about relationships he had not written. It always made him uncomfortable. Damn, Kira for making him come here. He prepared himself to make his excuses and flee. Save himself from an unwanted interrogation.

But Cyrus did not interrogate him. Instead, he straightened up and smiled that impossibly wide smile once again. “You wrote _‘A Sword In Eight Pieces’!_ ”

TJ stared at him dumbly. It was not that Cyrus was wrong, it was just that he was surprised. _‘A Sword In Eight Pieces’_ was a short fantasy novel he had written when he was eighteen. The first novel-length piece he had finished, in fact. He had published it online first and then managed to save up enough to have about two-hundred copies printed. He had only managed to convince three bookstores to stock it. He still had a box of copies at home as a result.

It was not _‘A Nightingale Sings’_ and success did not even come close to the right word for it. Nobody cared about _‘A Sword In Eight Pieces’_ . Nobody _knew_ about it.

Cyrus threw up his hands to gesture ‘one moment’ and before TJ could blink he was sprinting towards the staircase in the corner. He watched as Cyrus disappeared up it, frozen in place by surprise and unsure of what to do, and his brain had barely finished rebooting when his feet reappeared on the steps. Cyrus skidded to a halt behind the counter again, face the picture of excited, and dropped something onto the counter with a loud thump.

A battered copy of _‘A Sword In Eight Pieces’_ stared up at TJ.

“...That’s my book,” he said quietly in wonder.

Carefully, he reached forward and touched the front cover. It was creased and curling out slightly, the red colouring a little faded, and when he picked it up to flick through it he realised that several of the pages were dog-eared. Pencilled notes had been made in the margins. It looked… old. Loved. The kind of book you found on someone’s nightstand that had been read and re-read over and over.

A lump formed in his throat. He didn’t know what to say.

“It’s one of my favourites,” Cyrus explained. “I’ve only been to New York once… not really my kind of place, too busy, but that’s where I got it. I’m glad I went, even if it’s just because of that book.”

“You really like it that much?”

“‘Course, I wouldn’t say so if I didn’t… hey, would you sign it for me?”

There was a hopeful look on Cyrus’ face and TJ’s stomach seemed to think it was on a rollercoaster once again.

“Sure thing,” he said, then took the pen that Cyrus’ pulled from his front pocket.

 _‘To Cyrus,’_ he wrote. _‘Thanks for the coffee.’_

Cyrus smiled as he read it over. TJ grappled desperately for something else to say, he almost wanted to thank him for caring about a book no one else gave a damn about, but no words came. He was saved from awkward silence, though, when the bell above the shop door tinkled. They both looked up to see a gaggle of newcomers trooping through, all shaking off the cold fall air as they did. Cyrus glanced at the clock and nodded.

“Right on time,” he said. “You’d better get over there. That’s the other writers. They’ll love you. It’s not every day they have a bestselling author in their midst.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be over in a minute, I just gotta make everyone’s drinks. Go ahead, they don’t bite.”

TJ rolled his eyes and bit back a smile at Cyrus’ answering laugh as he slid off his stool. He pulled up a seat in the corner with the rest of them and tried to remember all their names as they went through the introductions. If he was distracted by the movements of the barista with the bright smile at the counter, then that was nobody’s business but his own.

  
  
  



End file.
